This Song For You
by Red-Wine-And-Roses
Summary: songFIC John is shipped out to war, and Sherlock waits patiently for him, but after a long year, will he ever come home? ONESHOT


**a/n Hullo there! This is my first Sherlock fic and I really wanted to write this. Tis a song fic and the song is This Song For You by Chris De Burgh :) Enjoy and review!**

This Song For You

It was early morning, the rain dripped from the windows and the clouds were a thick grey. With a coffee cup in hand, and his robe fastened tightly around him, Sherlock Holmes walked down the stairs, and out front to meet the day.  
He opened the door, the sound of the rain louder now as it pounded the street. He took a sip from his cup, and rested his head against the door frame.  
Every single morning, without fail, this was his routine, waiting for the postman for his letter.  
He had been gone for 2 weeks, 4 days, and 7 hours, not very long, but Sherlock was counting the seconds until he was back, and safe in his arms.  
When Passchendaele had broken out, and the draft began, they never thought that John would be drafted back, but they were short on doctors, and maybe they should have seen it coming. But it didn't make letting him go any worse, and although Sherlock knew the risks and the odds, for once, he thought and hoped against it.  
He was more than halfway done his cup, when the postman arrived. He was soaked from head to toe, but Sherlock didn't care.  
"Has it arrived?", he asked, anxiously.  
With a sigh, and a small laugh, the postman nodded pulling out a small, beaten envelope.  
"Yeah, it's here, you can rest easy now,", he handed the envelope to Sherlock.  
With a huff, Sherlock snatched the letter and retreated into the apartment.  
He skipped every second step, nearly running to the living room, his heart beating fast.  
"Has it come?", peeked out from her apartment, as Sherlock sped up the stairs, but he didn't answer her, he just hurried, not bothering to close the door behind him.  
Sherlock plopped down on the couch and looked down at the letter. A flurry of emotions washed through him, excitement, joy, relief, anxiety, all of it. But looking down at the quickly scribbled address of John's writing, he couldn't wait any longer, and he carefully opened the envelope.  
With percision, he picked out the folded letter with his long slender fingers, and carefully peeeled it open. A small paper with scribbled violin notes along quickly drawn lines fell out from the letter, but Sherlock put it aside and began to read :

_Hello darling, this is the army,  
I've just got the time to write,  
Today we attack, there's no turning back,  
The boys they're all ready for the fight._

_Yes, I'm well but this place is like hell,  
They call it Passchendaele,  
In nineteen seventeen the war must be ending,  
The General said this attack will not fail;_

_So I'm writing down this simple little melody  
When you play it my love, think of me...  
We'll be together in this song for you,  
_

_Love Always, John. _

It was short, Sherlock imagined he hadn't much time to write, but he smiled all the while. He read the letter over and over again, John's voice speaking softly in his head. He closed the letter, placing it to the side, and picked up the small paper with the scribbled notes. It wasn't hard at all, he could practically hear it in his head already, but he really needed to hear it. So, with barely a stretch, Sherlock reached for his violin, and played the melody.  
It was sad, but sweet, and he could almost swear that John was there beside him.  
They were indeed together, in this song for him..

3 months, 2 weeks, 5 days, 10 hours.  
Sherlock sat at a small cafe, Mycroft and Greg sitting across from him. It had been almost 5 months since John left, and 2 weeks since his last letter. Greg and Mycroft had decided it would be best to try and get Sherlock out of the house at least once a week. The most he'd gotten out during the day was sitting at the door way waiting for the postman, and even now that they were out, Sherlock was constantly keeping an eye out for the man, just incase his letter had come.  
"So,", Mycroft coughed, nudging Lestrade, "Have you considered going back to work, until John get's back?"  
Greg nodded, wordlessly, picking at his donut. Talking about John was a delicate subject, but Mycroft and Greg had agreed that it was something that needed to be done, and with John out in Belgium, and Sherlock not working, Mycroft couldn't keep paying Sherlock's rent, although he could afford it, Sherlock needed to get out.  
"No,", he replied shortly, his eyes darting, "I'm not going back. Not until John get's back."  
"Okay..", Mycroft looked down at the sidewalk his pale fingers curling around the hook of his umbrella, "But, Sherlock, what of your cases? Surely you're still seeing your clients."  
Sherlock shook his head again, "No. I can't possibly take a case without John."  
Greg sighed, looking up at Sherlock, refusing to meet his eyes, "What if he doesn't come back.."  
Mycroft slammed his fist on the table, and Sherlock's eyes shot up. A thick awkwardness fell over the table.  
In the background, Sherlock could see him. Without a word, ignoring Greg's previous statement, he stood up practically flipping the table, and he headed straight for the postman.  
"Look at what you've done,", Mycroft hissed.  
But this had nothing to do with Mycroft, of Greg. It had to do with him..  
"Is it here?", Sherlock urged, approaching the postman.  
The burly man nodded, huffing, "Yes, yes, it's here."  
He pulled the letter out, and Sherlock practically snatched it from him, opening the letter right there on the sidewalk, not caring.  
He unfolded the letter, and began to read :

_They got old Bill and the Sergeant is still out there  
Wounded in some shellhole,  
They say this war will end all wars,  
Oh God I really hope it will,_

_Oh how's old England, are they still singing  
Those songs that we loved to sing,  
When all this is over, we'll go sailing in Dover,  
Catching fish like we used to with a string,  
Oh I miss you, I miss you, I miss you so,  
If they get me my love you will know...  
We'll always be together in this song for you...  
I've got to go now._

_Take care of yourself my love. John._

_'If they get me my love you will know..'  
_Sherlocks heart sank in his chest. Why would John even consider such a thing? Even think it? I suppose in such a circumstance...  
Sherlock shook his head, erasing the thought. The whole world dissappeared around him, as his song played, and he read the letter to himself again and again..

_The wind blew gently through the bedroom window, and the scent of fresh laundry filled the house. The sheets were cool, but the air was warm, and his arm was draped lightly across his waist.  
John smiled, and kissed the back of his neck, waking up Sherlock.  
"It's time to get up,", John whispered, kissing his shoulders.  
Sherlock grabbed onto John's hand, pulling his love closer to him.  
"No,", he grumbled, "I want to stay here, all day,"  
John laughed lightly, resting his head against Sherlocks,  
"You know if I could stay here all day with you I would, but it's time to get up, my love."  
He kissed Sherlock on the cheek, and slipped his hand out of Sherlock's.  
The minute his hand slipped away, and in the blink of an eye the smell of laundry faded, the sheets blew away, and the wind was cold._

1 year, 3 weeks, 4 days, 2 hours.  
The rain poured heavily, and the thunder clapped in the grey sky. Sherlock's alarm rang, breaking the morning silence, but instead of getting up right away, he set it to snooze, and rolled over, not wanting his dream to end. He would just sleep for another minute, just enough time for the dream to end...  
The alarm didn't ring the second time, instead he was awaken by a gentle knocking on his door. He rolled over in his bed, opening his eyes.  
Standing at the door, was , Lestrade, and another two officers he had never seen before.  
"Get out.", he muttered, rolling over in his sheets.  
Greg walked in the room, watching carefully, biting her nails.  
"Sherlock get up, you have a telegram.", Greg's voice was stern as he clenched the small paper in his hand.  
Sherlock opened his eye a little, and stared at Greg, confused. Who would send him a telegram?  
"A telegram? From who?", he asked.  
Greg turned to the two unknow officers and , and nodded for them to leave. He closed the door once they left and sat at the corner of Sherlock's bed staring into his lap.  
"It's from General Douglas Haig..", he took in a shaky breath, "It's John, Sherlock.."  
Without a moments hesitation he sat up and snatched the paper from Greg.  
The first thing he thought was that he was coming home, but no, the whole situation, Greg, , it was much too grave. He took a deep breath, and read the telegram slowly.  
_  
To : Sherlock Holmes, 221b Baker Street, London, England,_

_Regret To Inform You : Doctor John H. Watson Died Of Wounds On June 28th. General Douglas Haig Extends His Sympathy._

_From : Secretary War Office_

He read it again, and again, and again. His heart stopped beating, and he couldn't find his breath, like he had been kicked in the chest.  
Tears stung his eyes, and his heart physically ached.  
No. He couldn't be..He wouldn't just...No..  
Greg reached over to Sherlock, and placed his hand gently on his shoulder, "Sherlock..I...I'm so sorry.."  
Downstairs, he could hear weeping over the news. The front door opened and closed, "Where is he?", a harsh voice came. There was silence, followed by a hard pounding on the stairs, and then the apartment door burst open, and Mycroft ran in. His eyes landed on Sherlock, and his heart sank, dropping his umbrella to the ground.  
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock...I just got the news."  
Sherlock stood up, tossing the telegram to the side. "No!", he shouted, "No. He's not gone. This is some kind of cruel joke!"  
Greg looked to Mycroft for words, but for once Mycroft had no words.  
"Get out.", Sherlock hissed, but they didn't move, "Get out!", he shouted now.  
Mycroft bent down to pick up his umbrella and him and Greg walked out slowly, closing the door lightly behind them.  
Sherlock paced back and forth, unable to comprehend. How could John be dead. He could deduce a person in less than a minute, and he had seen more bodies than butterflies, but still he couldn't understand. He refused to accept it. If he accepted it, it would mean he was really, truly gone...  
Tears pricked at his eyes, and he shut them to block away the thoughts, push away the tears, but he couldn't. When he closed his eyes, he could see the many times he had almost lost John..with Moriarty at the pool..the gun to his head, the bomb strapped to him..but no, John had come home to him, they made it through..Why not this time?  
Angry, and unable to fight the tears, Sherlock stormed over to the fireplace, and with one arm swiped everything off it. It landed with a loud crash, but he didn't stop there. He walked over to John's desk, and again, swiped everything off, and onto the floor with a loud yell and a crash. He stumbled around the apartment before collapsing into his chair, breaking down into a heavy sob.  
John was gone. Really truly gone. He could feel it in his chest, his heart, his head, that moment when you truly know that that one person you care for in all the world is gone. You don't have to be there with them, nobody even has to tell you, but that sinking feeling in your chest sits on you, and you can feel it, you just know..and Sherlock knew, he was dead.  
With another sob, and not bothering to wipe away the tears, Sherlock got up from the couch, and wandered back into their bedroom. Pictures of them littered the room, and on John's pillow, where the bed was made, the letters sat. Every single letter. Sherlock walked over to them and picked them up in handfulls, crushing them in his hands, shaking. He collapsed to the floor. He was going to be sick. He curled up on the floor, in the mess of letters, and cried. He held himself and he sobbed uncontrollably, his body shaking with every hiccup. He opened his eyes, staring at the letters around him, and under a mess of envelopes, the small letter with their song peeked out. Sherlock Holmes picked himself up off the floor, the paper in hand, and stumbled over to the living room where his violin sat.  
He walked into the living room, taking a tack out of the wall where a random newspaper clipping hung, he hung the notes instead.  
"We'll be together..in this song..for...y-you.."  
With a shaky hand, he lift the violin to his chin, and placed a quivering bow atop the strings.  
He took a deep breath, he faced the window, and dragged the bow across the worn strings, their song filling the apartment, along with the scent of fresh laundry, the sun shining through the window, and for the second time, he could have sworn that John was standing beside him_._

__**a/n ALL THE EMOTIONS! D: Please review! :D 3 I luffs you!  
**


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